Honestly, This Part of England Has the World's Biggest Liars

By

Alistair MacDonald

November 25, 2011

SANTON BRIDGE, England—In this tiny village last week, Glen Boylan came to spin stories in a local pub, as the English are wont to do. On a rain-lashed night, Mr. Boylan's tale involved being offered a mayonnaise and peanut butter sandwich by a good Samaritan—Prince Charles—who happened to be passing through.

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John Graham, a local farmer and seven-time winner, says outsiders have changed the contest into more of a professional comedy show.
Charlie Hedley

Glen Boylan won the annual World's Biggest Liar contest with tall tale about losing all his money betting on a snail race, despite following Prince Charles's advice to remove the snail's shell to make it more aerodynamic.

This was no ordinary night of pub banter, however. At the Bridge Inn, Mr. Boylan was competing in the World's Biggest Liar competition, the village's annual celebration of dishonesty. Competitors' tall tales are judged on imagination, presentation and sheer chutzpah.

But in recent years, the contest's popularity has attracted more competitors from outside the area to Cumbria, in northwest England, one of the country's most remote regions. That has exposed an ugly truth for Cumbrians: The best fibbers are increasingly coming from other parts of Britain, and even other parts of the world.

"Anyone from anywhere is welcome at the contest—enter and spin a yarn—they are just not welcome to win it," said Mark Samson, an unemployed construction worker who had come to cheer on the local lad, Mr. Boylan, a 46-year-old worker at a nearby nuclear-power plant.

Cumbria isn't alone in trying to protect its local rituals from the outside world. Few countries celebrate eccentricity like the British, who in various places hold contests for snail racing, bog snorkeling, toe wrestling and a World Gurning Championship, in which contestants compete to contort their faces into the most grotesque expressions.

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Glen Boylan

But events that originated in once-isolated villages are attracting ever bigger crowds, and, in some cases, being commercialized, leaving locals worried about their ties to the regional traditions that engendered them. In the village of Brockworth, Gloucestershire, some have rebelled over what they see as the hijacking of an event in which competitors chase an eight-pound cheese rolled down a steep, grassy slope. The last two years' "official" contests were cancelled after organizers for the 200-year-old event complained of being threatened and abused for introducing an entry fee of about $30.

In Ashborne, increasing numbers of "tourists" join in the Royal Shrovetide Football Match, a riotous two-day cross between rugby and soccer that has few rules and uses the entire English Midlands town as its playing field. But outsiders are discouraged from scoring in a game that has pitted the town's south and north sides since the 12th century.

The liars' competition began in the 19th century as a tribute to local pub landlord Will Ritson, whose famous fibs included tales of turnips so big that local farmers carved them out to make cow sheds. Legend has it that one senior church man won the prize after standing up to say he had never told a lie; some suspect that tale is itself a lie.

The threat of globalization arrived in Stanton Bridge in 2005, when a South African, Abrie Kruger, won the contest and ushered in a string of wins for non-Cumbrians. After Mr. Kruger was announced the winner, spectators broke into a chorus of "Rule, Britannia," a song of British patriotism.

Then, in 2006, London comedian Sue Perkins won with a tale about flatulent sheep causing a hole in the ozone layer. Ms. Perkins was booed upon winning, but retorts: "If they want to call it the World's Biggest Liar, then the world has to be eligible."

This year, six Cumbrians and five interlopers squared off in a region whose picturesque, hilly landscape inspired tales of talking rabbits from Beatrix Potter and opium-induced poetry from Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

The first of the non-Cumbrian competitors was Rebecca Purves, an economist from Cheltenham, in southwest England. "Women cannot and do not lie," she said, before telling a fraudulent tale of shopping and false price tags.

Subdued applause for Ms. Purves made way for the raucous cheers that heralded John Graham, a local farmer and seven-time winner of this liars' Olympiad. After 24 contests, the self-styled "Johnny Liar" said he is "running out of lies." But he told one that had him flying with sea gulls, swimming with salmon and shooting a pig he mistook for a ghost.

For Mr. Boylan, appearing on the same stage as Mr. Graham is an honor. "You taught me to lie," Mr. Boylan told him later, saying he had learned his trade watching Mr. Graham perform.

Mr. Graham believes the competition has changed as outsiders turn it into more of a professional comedy show than the "good, honest" lying of old. "They are comedians, not liars," said Mr. Graham, the dirt from a day's farming still under his fingernails.

Two-time winner Howard Christie, a local landlord, laments the passing of an earlier era of fibbing and believes strong local dialects like Mr. Graham's put off judges who want broadcastable accents to increase the appeal of the competition beyond Cumbria.

John Jackson, a regional mayor and one of seven judges, denies there are biases. "I just pick the best lie," he said.

In last week's competition, more controversy was generated when Scotsman Michael O'Rourke was accused of plagiarizing his routine—about scientists trying to erase the "ginger gene" that "creates" redheads—from a famous British comedian's routine. "That's a lie," said Mr. O'Rourke.

Then it was Mr. Boylan's turn. His hair was spiked, his shirt, sweaty. "You are not going to believe this," Mr. Boylan said, before telling of how he lost all his money betting on a snail race, despite following Prince Charles's advice to remove the snail's shell to make it more aerodynamic. Finding him hungry and broke, Mr. Boylan said, the heir to the British throne took pity on him and shared his lunch of mayonnaise and peanut butter sandwiches.

As the judges deliberated, Mr. Boylan was besieged by jubilant supporters. "It's coming home, it's coming home," Mr. Samson chanted, aping an England soccer song that bemoans the country's lack of recent success at the sport it created.

When the judges returned, the jovial crowd fell silent, a region's hopes hinging on the sheet of paper held in the emcee's hand. The news was good: Mr. Boylan was crowned the winner, and fellow Cumbrians took silver and bronze. "A clean sweep for Cumbria," somebody shouted.

Gazing afterward at the large, silver trophy, Mr. Boylan felt emotional. "It's back in Cumbria, where it belongs," he said. "That is where the world's biggest liars come from."

That's not what they thought at Mr. O'Rourke's table. Mr. O'Rourke "didn't win it just because he is a Scotsman," said Colin O'Brien, a construction worker from Glasgow. "Anyone who says differently is lying."

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